by Andres Kabel
“Certainly keeps you occupied, luvvy.”
***
On Friday afternoon an unexpected visitor dropped in. Sam Vinci wore a bright green tie and his hair shone with gel, but Peter saw bags under the restless eyes.
“You intellectuals never stop,” Vinci sneered. He bent to look at diagram boxes labeled “Rollo” and “Kantor.”
“You can thank your lucky stars we don’t.” Peter recalled his experiences in custody and decided to needle the policeman. “Have you nabbed Scaffidi yet?”
“As if you’d understand.” Vinci twirled a match between his fingers and chewed its end. “You okay?”
“Passable. What do you want?”
“Fuck you too. Just came to apologize for…for things. No, don’t start up, just hear me out.” Vinci spoke to the window. “It’s not often I say this, but you’re a smart bastard, and Ivory’s a hell of a cop, even now. You guys did this city a service. There, I’ve said it.”
“Give us a medal then,” Peter said.
“Smart-arse. You think we’re all morons, don’t you? Well, I had them print out the security system details for Monday. Marcia Brindle visited the second floor, only she was dead.”
Was the policeman going to threaten his Private Investigator’s license? Peter stayed silent.
“Don’t worry, water under the bridge now.” Vinci finally deigned to look at Peter and his voice was filled with bitterness. “And I know Bertoli killed the other two for Scaffidi, not Rollo Keppel. Only, your trigger-happy mate shot him before we could prove it.”
“He didn’t have much choice at the time.”
Vinci pointed at the sheets of paper covering the bed. “Why you going over that shit again?”
“Something’s needling me.”
Vinci narrowed his eyes, then smiled. It came out more like a grimace.
“A joke. Right?”
***
Peter dreamt of Sergio Scaffidi perched on the edge of his bed. In the darkness the crime boss’s twisted face contained shadows within shadows and his one eye was invisible in its sunken socket.
“How did you get in?” Peter asked. Icy terror gripped his bowels but he couldn’t move.
Scaffidi rubbed thumb and first two fingers together.
“So you didn’t heed my warnings.” The American accent hovered in the air.
Peter lay frozen.
“Ah, but you need not fear, clever one,” Scaffidi said. “That entire sorry episode is now behind me. I just wanted to say I admire your mind, my friend. Such speed of analysis. I hope and pray we never meet again. For your sake or mine, who can tell.”
As Scaffidi limped away, he turned for a parting whisper.
“Just you tell that muscle man of yours. He ever sees me again, he’s dead.”
***
Dr. Ritten was thin and intense, with long earlobes that he continually tugged. On Saturday morning, Peter asked to leave.
“I feel perfectly fine,” he dissembled.
“No, you don’t.”
“Look, I can check myself out, can’t I?”
Dr. Ritten sighed. “Very well then. Let’s make it tomorrow morning.”
Later that day, a Skulk Club contingent visited on the way to the football game. Harvey had flown to Singapore and Renni hated Australian Rules, but Carlo came with Giuseppe Marino, Tomasina Symons, and Arnold Ng. Their stay was short but raucous.
Arnold handed Peter a folded sheet of paper before they left.
***
Friedman’s hair had grayed noticeably in just a few days. The developer’s experience in jail had shaken him.
“Justice? You call what we have justice? I tell the truth and they charge me with three murders!”
Peter watched him rise from the chair next to the bed, then sit down, over and over. For some reason he seemed to regard Peter as his confessor.
“I keep thinking. If I’d told the truth at the start, maybe they’d have caught killer Keppel earlier, before the other two got slaughtered.”
The sheet Arnold Ng had given him listed four names. Peter was still recovering.
He fingered the two CDs Friedman had given as a thank-you gift—“Cuban music, from Ry Cooder, brilliant, one for you and one for your ferocious mate”—and imagined Mick’s disdain at the soft rhythms.
“Did you bring it?” he asked Friedman.
“But Stan’s diaries don’t contain any business information.” Friedman handed him a pile of slim volumes bound with a rubber band. “Just personal stuff and not much of that. What the hell are you looking for? I’ve been through them a thousand times, never found anything useful about Kantor.”
“I don’t know yet,” Peter admitted.
The look in Friedman’s wet eyes was as intense as any Peter had ever seen. “But you are going to prove the bastard killed Stan, aren’t you?”
***
Peter returned to square one. He tore up his chaotic sheets of paper and redid the entire logic chain, this time on one sheet. At the top he printed a heading in capitals: The Data, The Analysis, The Conclusions. Time slipped away, and when the phone rang he spilled tea on the page.
“Is this Peter Gentle?”
He couldn’t place the woman’s voice. “Yes.”
“I got your letter.” Bella! He heard a sniffle. “Just rang to say thanks.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched into embarrassment.
“Anyway,” she said, “for what it’s worth, I never did screw Kantor.”
“But you said…”
“Just to hurt Rollo. I was a mess then. I was amazed people believed me. Shit, Kantor would never have done it, all he cared about was his family. And Rollo…”
Peter heard sobbing before she hung up.
***
“Your hair!”
Peter jerked out of sleep. Mick and Dana stood over the bed, holding hands.
“What about it?” Peter grinned, barely able to contain his delight. He had so much to talk about with Mick.
“It’s neat. It’s tidy. It’s even presentable.”
Mick’s bruises had faded to gray-flecked yellow and he looked as mammoth and unbreakable as ever.
“Get stuffed.” Peter rubbed sleep out of his eyes and sat up. “It’s my last night here, big guy. Boy, have I got something to tell you.”
“Had a call from your mate Harvey,” Mick said. “He’s asked me to join the Skulk Club.”
“And you’ve accepted?”
“I said I’d think about it. Reckon I’d fit in?”
“Of course,” Peter lied.
They chatted. Peter filled Mick in about Vinci and Bella, but one look at Dana convinced him to defer relaying Scaffidi’s message. From Mick he learned that Deirdre Lasker had been promoted. Mick handed him a gift of a cassette.
“There’s only one song on it,” Mick said. “Not your style, but I couldn’t resist. A guy called Frank Black, used to be with the Pixies. This song is called ‘I Love Your Brain.’”
Peter laughed.
“We’re leaving for a holiday, tomorrow morning, the whole family, up the coast in Merimbula,” Dana said coldly. Peter thought she looked beautiful in her white shirt and jeans and blue jacket. Her hair billowed in black curls. Why did she hate him so? She just needs to get used to me, he thought.
“Too much water in Merimbula,” he joked. He hated beaches.
Mick took off his sunglasses and cleared his throat. “And something else.” His eyes were round and uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I really enjoyed working with you, but—”
“Shit.” Peter couldn’t believe his ears. “After all we’ve gone through. After all I’ve done for you, you moron.”
“Everything okay, luvvy?” Plump Rita.
“Get out!” Peter shrieked at Rita, and when she fled, he turned back to Mick, standing like a stuffed animal by the bed. “What, you’re going back to driving taxis? How much money did you earn in a week working with me?”
“Stop being so selfish.” Dana threw him a look of revulsion and stormed out.
Mick shrugged. “The fucking cowboy life is no good for me. You saw what it does.”
“But…” Peter wanted to say they could work on the anger business together. Instead he took a deep breath and stared at his friend and ex-partner.
“Did you bring your case notes?” he said. He’d rung Mick earlier in the day to request them. Why didn’t you bloody tell me then? he thought.
Mick handed him two spiral notebooks. “What the hell do you need those for?”
Peter contemplated explaining. Would it persuade the cretin to change his mind?
“Reminiscing,” he muttered.
He opened the first notebook, toward the beginning, marveling at the dense, precise writing, and flicked quickly through the pages. There! As if he’d always known it! His heart beat faster. He snapped the notebook shut.
He saw the blue eyes narrow, just a fraction, and wished he’d waited till Mick left. Luckily Mick had other matters on his mind.
“No hard feelings then?” Mick said.
Bitterness swallowed Peter. How could he contemplate looking for more private investigative work without Mick?
“Hard feelings?” He heard his voice rise. “Do you have any idea how well we did on this case? We were dynamite.”
“We got lucky.” Mick squared his shoulders, as calm as ever.
“Lucky? You got lucky, when I found you.”
“Whatever. Grow up, Gentle.” And the poised block of Mick’s back headed out the door.
Sudden remorse swept over Peter. He threw off the sheet and plunged into the corridor, almost colliding with a furious Rita.
“Sorry, Mick,” he shouted, knowing he’d never catch up, even as he ran on, his pajamas flapping around his ankles. “Sorry!”
CHAPTER 47
A sign—For Sale—hung on the white fence of The Island. After paying the taxi driver, Peter stood outside the front gate and rubbed his jaw, which had inexplicably begun to ache the moment he left the hospital. Mathoura Road dozed on a Sunday morning. Gray scummy clouds hovered above him. The last time it rained, he reflected, Bertoli and Marcantonio came out of the night. He shivered.
Instead of pressing the intercom button, he hooked a foot in the letterbox slit and hoisted himself up onto the top of the gate. He swung his legs over, balanced awkwardly, and then dropped down, grunting upon landing.
The courtyard brooded. He listened for birds, could hear none. A flicker of black flashed in the rose bushes. Quickly he traversed the gloom and tried the front doorknob. It turned in his hand. He stepped into the unlit, dusky hallway.
Straw must have seen or heard him. She stood at the foot of the stairs in full black. The tortoiseshell cat purred around her ankles, and the gray monstrosity dozed on the floor. Straw wore a shapeless black jacket over her goth dress. Giant gold circles hung from her ears. Without make-up, her face looked flaccid. Peter saw bruised hollows below eyes that stared as if they’d never seen him before.
Just like last time, she came to him, dress rustling and jewelry tinkling.
“Magical Mister Mistoffelees.” Her whisper was high and mechanical.
Peter flinched at her unwashed odor.
“Straw, where’s your mother?” he asked loudly.
She took his hand and led him upstairs, just like last time. In her room, the curtains were drawn and the main lights dimmed, and at first he could hardly see. A jet-black cat lay on the bed, and the ugly hairless one mewed while it wound around its mistress’s legs. Cloying incense failed to mask a putrid mix of feline and human reeks. The statuettes over the fireplace shone under spotlights.
Straw pulled at him.
“No, Straw,” he said. “Where’s your mother?”
She kept tugging.
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Peter’s voice contained a quiver, and when she released his hand, he took a step back. “You killed Stan Friedman.”
She stared blankly at him.
“He came here for dinner and said the formula wouldn’t work. Have I got it right, Straw? A threat. And how do you deal with threats? I read his diary: ‘Had a lovely night at Kantor’s. That daughter of his, Straw, especially friendly.’ You came onto him, didn’t you, like you did with me? So on one of his late night walks, you invited yourself along. Did you have to hit him to prevent him climbing out of the river?”
Not a spark in those moss-green orbs.
“It didn’t come to me until I remembered this.”
Peter pointed at the central sphinxlike cat statuette on the mantelpiece beside him. “Basket, you called it.”
“Bastet.” Her fluted voice could have been a recording.
“Goddess of the cats, right? B for Bastet. And then I realized the email must have come from you. The language, the message… You know your way around a computer, don’t you?”
She stood perfectly still.
“People make the mistake of thinking you’re dumb. All because you don’t communicate. But you’re not dumb, are you, Straw? You’re smarter than the entire police force.”
He clasped his hands to check their quivering. Her blank face was pale as alabaster in the dimness. Doubt seized him but he forged on.
“A friend of mine dug into the company software. Kantor made a security pass for you, didn’t he? An invisible, special pass for his special girl. Did you visit your dad’s office at night sometimes? He adored you, Straw, why kill him?” Something flickered in her eyes. “Let me guess. He was going to pull the plug, wasn’t he? And then you’d lose this.”
He spread his arms wide to encompass her room and The Island.
Nothing. No reaction. Where had his analysis gone wrong?
“Bad.” Her voice was the creak of a rusty door.
A cat began to rub against Peter’s legs. He kicked it away. Yes, he thought, logic prevails.
“Bad,” Straw intoned, and a shiver coursed down Peter’s spine.
The police, he thought.
But Straw drew a gun from her jacket and pointed the squat barrel at him.
No! Peter’s legs liquefied, and he found himself on one knee, looking up at the weapon. He felt weightless.
“No,” he said, his face crumpling. Mick, help, he thought. “Please.”
Wavering through tears: bared teeth. Oval. Green marbles. Gray gun.
“Bad!” she spat.
He saw her glance at the statuette. He heard cats scurrying away. The gun wavered.
Think!
“Walter,” he shouted. His entire body tensed for the bullet.
Stillness above him.
“Walter.” His words exhaled between pants. “You. Killed. Walter.”
“Bad,” she hissed.
The gun shook and he knew the end had arrived, but a scream rent the room, and he whirled to see Imogen howling in the doorway. Reflexively he slammed forward. His head struck softness, he heard a grunt, they struck the wall together. A deafening bang.
Pain shot through his back as he landed with Straw on top. And his jaw! He screamed. She must have dropped the gun, for claws raked his face. He looked up at an unbelievable sight. A face taut with livid hatred, green on white, hissing mouth, hot spittle spraying. Grunts as she dug her fingers in, searching for eyes.
His hand felt something on the floor, something small and cold and heavy. Screeching, he grabbed and swung. The tearing at his face stopped. Just like that it stopped, and heaviness fell on him, suffocating. He thrashed and Straw’s inert body slid off him onto the carpet.
Peter examined the object in his hand. The cat goddess statuette. Blood on the pointed ears.
He sat up. Shaking. Burning agonies in his jaw. Straw lay still beside him, the tortoiseshell cat sniffing at blood pouring from a wound in the wet dough of Straw’s face.
A keening sound penetrated his ringing ears. He raised his heavy head. Imogen rocked on her knees, fingers splayed across her face, eyes transfixed on Straw’s prone f
igure, wailing her symphony of grief.
CHAPTER 48
Once on the trail, Homicide discovered Straw’s security pass and tracked down the email on her computer. The murder weapon and Kantor’s briefcase were never located, but the clincher proved to be a small stain on a pair of jeans at the back of her closet. The stain matched her father’s blood. No evidence could be found to link Straw to her brother Walter’s death or the drowning of Stan Friedman.
The trial—fast-tracked because of looming State elections—took Melbourne by the throat. Peter’s face on the front page of The Age, next to the oval face disfigured by a slash across a cheek, amazed the Skulk Club. His evidence destroyed Straw’s legal team’s case for mental impairment.
Peter sat with Hector in the packed gallery to hear the sentencing. Someone had dressed Straw in plain cream clothes, rendering her unrecognizable—just a pudgy misfit with expressionless green eyes.
“Fucking brilliant,” Mick whispered when he eased into the empty seat next to Peter, his orange-lens sunglasses and tight Metallica T-shirt attracting stares.
“It was your notebook that did the trick.” Peter grinned unrestrainedly. “I couldn’t figure out how Straw escaped the building. But you’d noted that there was a security pass reader by the emergency exit.”
The craggy-faced judge—Hector claimed his nickname was John Wayne—handed down a life sentence.
Imogen Keppel didn’t attend the trial. After eleven years of complete silence from her daughter, that Sunday morning she’d heard five staccato words, and evidently wished to hear no more. She need not have worried. Straw uttered not a single word before, during, or after the shortest murder trial in years.
CHAPTER 49
After the trial, Peter led Mick through the city streets to his reclaimed apartment. Mick would stay the night. Once Mick set his suit bag down in the tiny hallway, Peter took him on a tour through the small shiny kitchen, the messy bedroom, and the bathroom. In the open lounge room, he showed Mick the big table he’d bought to hold two PCs and to serve as his work area.
Above the work table hung a sign, the mission statement for his new business: Data, Analysis, Conclusions, Courage. Not that the work had poured in; the last two months had drifted by in a haze of court appearances, moving house, and movie dates with Mandy.
